


In Their Hands

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel's always had a thing for hands</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Their Hands

He draws their hands these days, pencil scratching almost obsessively over the paper, trying to capture the images before they fade completely away. Every man had something they looked at first, something that never failed to capture their imagination, and for Angel it had always been hands. He didn't know why- didn't care, really, just knew it was so.

Darla's hands, with their careful manicure and almost calculated grace, had captured him from the second he'd seen her fingers stroking over her tankard in the country inn. She was the only one who'd known about his fascination, and she'd never hesitated to exploit it. How many times had she sparked his lust by the simple sight of a wineglass cradled in her palm? He sketches them in that pose now, then with her hand in his, the last time he'd seen her, before she died to give their son life. 

Buffy's hands are next, the small hands that had touched him with a virgin's hesitant curiosity and later battered him to the ground when he'd tried to destroy her. He remembers how warm and soft they felt, not yet hardened by the years of battle that they would eventually undergo. Wrapped around a stake, holding a baby that will never be born, wearing a ring that he has only heard a rumor of... he draws her in many styles, but the last is of her hand clasped in a burning embrace with another that he knows well. 

Then there were Drusilla's long, deadly nails, made to tear at a man's back and slash a slayer's throat to spill her blood. He doesn't linger there, far too uncomfortably aware that she had done so at his bidding. Cordelia's elegant, expensive look when he first met her and more practical look from later, with shorter nails and clear polish, designed to hold up against demon blood. Fred's fist covered in blood when she'd called him to her side in Pylea, then busy with one of her contraptions, fingers almost caressing the various cogs and wheels. Gunn's hands, always nicked from handling weapons, and Wesley's, surprisingly capable of some of the coldest acts he'd ever seen but still beautiful. Not as beautiful as William's, though. 

Angel has two sketchbooks filled with just Spike's hands. They were gorgeous, and he'd wanted him from the second he'd thrust that elegant hand into the sunlight to see if he would be strong enough to stand as an equal with him. He's filled pages with that, the spread and shaking fingers, smoke curling off his skin as if his ending was predicted at his beginning. Spike's hands were the one part of his body that never felt Angelus' wrath- they were always left perfect and pristine, even if the rest of his body was reduced to one large bloody mass from the wrists down.  
   
Smoking, shuffling cards, twirling coins on the backs of his fingers, fingers tapping in a restless rhythm that only he had heard... sometimes Angel wonders if Spike knew about his thing for hands, because the younger vampire's hands were almost never still. They were works of art in action, whether they clutched a pen or a knife, grabbed the spindles of the bed or were stretched out in supplication to his sire. He'd taught those hands, guided them in the arts of pleasure and pain, showed them how to deal out blood and ecstasy in equal measure, then had far too short a time to enjoy the fruits of his efforts.  
   
His son's hands are the last, the tiny baby hands that batted at his ridged features without fear and the gangly teenage hands that sent him to the sea floor. Connor had been his every wish made flesh, and he still marvels at how perfectly formed his hands were even from birth. The nails no bigger than a drop of water were a miracle, as were the miniscule whorls on miniature fingertips and the small palm where he'd laid his own finger only to have it clutched tight. He'd missed seeing that hand grow, watching it learn to manuever a fork and master a pencil to make words, and the loss never fails to make him angry.  
   
From hands that were just beginning in life to ones that had torn demons apart and touched the woman Angel loved. He charts those as well, the bitten and ragged nails with bleeding cuticles, the scar at the base of his left ring finger, the old bite mark on the heel of his right. Those hands had tried to end his life over and over again, made love to Cordelia and brought a monster into the world, then tried to destroy it all in the end. He wonders what they'll look like holding a diploma or typing a college paper.  
   
When at last he is finished, when he has exhausted himself and run out of both paper and charcoal, six notebooks sit stacked neatly by his bedside. He doesn't look at any of them, can't bear to flip through them and see the pages upon pages of familiar and well-loved hands that have all meant so much to him. Each and every one of them has at one point held his heart in them, even if many of them never knew it. He wonders sometimes, would it have helped if he'd said anything? Or would it just make his current solitary state hurt more?


End file.
